


Sit in Silence for the Rest of My Life

by SongAboutExiles



Series: Casting Shadows and Lies [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, F/M, M/M, Multi, Origin Story, Past Abortion, Physical Abuse, Polyamory, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Reproductive Coercion, Rough Sex, Steve WIll Protect Everyone Dammit Everyone, Tony Sometimes Has Really Terrible Ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She told him everything. Even that he tasted like sweet corruption and the desolation of roads not taken. Like heartbreak and an umbilical cord between your teeth. Like chewing off your own arm to escape a trap and finally hitting marrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sit in Silence for the Rest of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Someone started Natasha on the path to becoming a soulless killing machine when she was a very little girl. This is canon, so don't expect this to be anything other than a very, very dark story.  
> 2\. It is a carry on from the Heartbeats universe, and while I certainly would encourage you to read it (because reasons), the big takeaways are that Tony and Bruce are married, and that Clint is fucking Steve AND Natasha, just not quite at the same time yet.  
> 3\. Series and chapter titles from Black Chandelier, by Biffy Clyro.

"Hey, guys...c'mon up to my lair on the 10th floor. You won't regret it." Tony leaned back into the office chair and grinned. "Hurry." 

He was playing with his still-shiny new wedding ring when Bruce, Steve and Thor came in. The thunder god managed to come for the ceremony, and figured with things relatively quiet he would stay a while, put in some time protecting Midgard from, well, Midgard while Bruce and Tony went off the radar for awhile. Bruce leaned over to kiss the top of Tony's head when they crowded around the desk. 

As usual, there were several video feeds running on the virtual heads-up display. One cluster in the bottom right corner was comprised of Clint and Natasha. Tony had realized a while ago from perusing the security footage in a fit of bored pique that those two did some legitimately weird shit when they thought no one was watching, or didn't care.

One tiny feed shows them running on the indoor track at HQ, pelting hell for leather around all the regular folks just trying to get in their lunchtime workout. Clint and Natasha's version of a lunchtime run was several miles, full out, weaving and putting on various bursts of speed so that they could smack each other somewhere, usually the arm, before darting away and using the civilians as cover. 

Their version of eating together in the cafeteria consisted of one tray of food that they most often pushed around desultorily between them, emitting 'fuck off' vibes so hard that even Tony wouldn't sit next to them.

But one question had been niggling at Tony above all--they must put in literal ages in the sparring ring, so why hasn't he ever been able to catch them at it?

Today, his luck changed. Tony reached for Bruce's hand to hold on his shoulder while he used the other to throw the the live feed up so that everyone could see. "After-lunch show, gentlemen."

On the screen, Natasha and Clint were facing off in one of the small training rooms, cleared out and locked. "I heard that they do this almost every day, but I've never managed to grab the feed." 

"You are a terrible pervert," Bruce declared, but he didn't take his eyes away. "I admit I've been...curious." 

"I'm not like...sex curious, just....curious. And apparently so is everyone else." Steve had the good grace to look embarrassed at even being there, but Thor? No shame. In fact, Steve looked like his star spangled panties were in a hell of a bunch, but he wasn't leaving. 

On the screen, Clint made the first move, darting in low to sweep Natasha's feet out from under her with a wicked kick, but Natasha read the move and jumped, letting a bare foot plant hard into Clint's shoulder before she came back to rest on the mat, moving forward to press her advantage against her opponent. 

Her eyes...Tony blew up the video more, and yeah. There were her eyes--not intelligent and quick-witted and often full of dry gallows humor. Instead, they were flat, cold, calculating.

Actually, can you call it sparring if they were not even pulling punches? Those punches? Were feal as fuck. They may not have super-powers, but Tony can't remember ever seeing regular humans move that fast, that brutally. 

Natasha and Clint were both sweating, and yet the grip of bare feet on the mat was steady, neither of them giving an inch and both of them pressing for a harder hit, a more brutal take down. They were dressed identically, in tight black SHIELD tech tee-shirts, and equally tight shorts, and really it wasn't fair that Clint could pull that off and still look fucking scary. 

They were both trained gymnasts along with their other hand to hand skills, and watching them move was like watching two big cats fight over a kill. Natasha was all over Clint, using him like a goddamned climbing frame to grab and hold and hurt, and Clint picked her off like a tick and tossed her against the wall. She kicked off it upon impact, rolled forward and flat-palmed a strike to his solar plexus with all the force of her weight and momentum. Clint barely blocked, taking the hit on his shoulder and grunting.

"That could have killed him," Bruce murmured in his ear, and Tony believed it.

At least Clint had the decency to make some noise--Natasha was dead silent, even when he grabbed her arm on its way past his shoulder, twisted it around and managed to yank her shoulder out of joint with a sickening pop. No instant of hesitation from her, she just carried around the twist and used the heightened range of motion to put Clint on the mat so hard it made Tony's teeth rattle in sympathy. 

"I guess that's..." Steve started, frankly rather glad because this hurt to watch, and even if the others had seen little enough of these kinds of demons, he'd seen more, more, more than his fair share. He'd held each of those compact, brutally efficient bodies in his arms, and he felt like he had some bare, beginning of an idea what their 'murder dolls' were to each other. It was not for show.

But it wasn't really the end, apparently, since Natasha slammed her shoulder back in place by the rather barbaric expedient of using her weight to hammer down onto Clint's broad chest. That crack made Clint cry out--a rib, surely, if only one of the floaters, and the cry stayed her hand, the heel of which was rocketing to his jaw. 

Instead of saying anything, she rolled up to her feet and pulled Clint with her. Damned if she'll let him end up on the floor--pulling him up must be important since it hurt like hell. He let her do it, breathing shallowly against the rib doing things it really ought not be doing. She bowed to him, and he to her, and her hand brought their foreheads together. 

Natasha reached down and pulled his tee shirt up and off, examining her handiwork and laying a gentle hand over the rapidly purpling bruise, then leaning in to kiss it. No apologies asked for or given. "Shh, it's over now," she whispered, finally making a noise, pulling him down to rest his head on her barely-functional shoulder. "I'll tape it up." 

"Yeah." Clint looked up and searched Natasha's eyes, and there she was again. The woman that he clearly, viciously, madly, and all-consumingly loved. The dead-eyed predator was back in her cage. 

"It'll heal clean." 

"I know, Tash." 

"Come on." Softly. She led him to the bench by the door and her other hand rummaged in her bag for a roll of medical tape. With the ease of long, long practice she started wrapping his ribs, and Tony had to wonder how many of the man's scars were hers, how many of hers were his. Clint gritted his teeth but she was quick and efficient and it was over soon..

"Now you." He reaches out and tugs her shirt up and off gently. "You have to stop dislocating this one," he murmured to her. "Some day it's gonna bite you in the ass." His deft fingertips probe the edges of the shoulder socket, making sure it ground back into place properly. If it hurt, she showed no sign. 

When the shirt came off, leaving Natasha in nothing but a sports bra, Tony had to confess to a brief moment of prurient interest, which fled in a wash of discomfort when they saw her back for the first time. The narrow surface was a wreck of scars, all carefully laid down so as to be hidden by even a sleeveless top. They were old, faded, some almost vanishing into her pale skin and leaving only the raised keloid tissue behind. 

When Clint was satisfied, he cupped her face and raised it up to his. "Next time, we need the knives." 

Tony immediately resolved to delete this feed so that he would never have to know what **that** business looked like. 

"I know," she whispered back, and then Steve's hand came around to stop the feed.

"I think we've all seen enough. We have real work to do." That was the Captain speaking, and the others scattered like they were just caught by their dad looking at pornography.

Maybe it was just that, actually. Maybe they were. If porn left you feeling a little sick and overwhelmed and not horny. "Don't do this again, Stark." The Captain's voice was flat, even, and brooked absolutely no shit, and then he was gone, too. 

"Jesus, guys. I am so fucking sorry," Tony whispered to no one, thankful suddenly that they would never know they were seen. 

**

Steve paced for an hour, conflicted and hurting and fighting every instinct he had to just go down to their assigned locker room, shut the door, and hold them both. But he couldn't. It was too soon, things were still fragile, and tremulous, and fractious between him and Natasha, even though his relationship with Clint was growing increasingly steadier. 

Maybe it was just the weird dynamic that he was having trouble getting past? The way that Tasha could curl on one side of the bed and watch him have sex with Clint, interested but a little wary...he couldn't do it the first time, but then she'd moved in to kiss him, almost sweetly, and murmur things in his ear that, to put it mildly, he found very motivating. And now, a couple of months after the wedding, he was used to her presence, even though he ached to just wrap her up in his arms, to make her feel good because even though he wasn't sure what he was doing with women (and how strange was that?) he did have a certified expert right there in the bed. .

"People who mean nothing are easy. She'll fuck their brains out, get up and take a shower, and leave it to me to toss them out. Of a hotel room, always, not our bed. You're the first one who's meant a damn thing, and that's why she's so skittish." Clint had tried to explain, and Steve thought he was close to understanding.

And then, there was Clint himself, the continually unfolding wonder. The beautiful man who flew into pieces for him, who had since that first time. The child who responded to unexpected kindness and a warm embrace by giving over everything. Every toy in his box. _If he'd ever toys, or a toy box, or a childhood,_ Steve reminded himself. _If either of them had, this would be so much easier._

But nothing worth having was easy. If his life had taught him anything, it was that one sad, irrevocable fact.

**

Once the shower door was locked, Natasha stepped under the pounding spray from one of the overhead jets, sighing as the pressure beat down on new bruises and fading ones. No one else used their facilities this time of day, and since Clint and Natasha's job when not ON active assignment was to be trained up and ready FOR active assignment, they'd become fairly proprietary over the space during working hours. 

Of course, Natasha was proprietary over a lot of things, but not in the generally expected ways. She turned around and rested her back against the warm tiles and watched Clint gingerly stripping down to skin without jostling the rib too much. 

Looking back, she felt bad about the rib--ribs are such a goddamned bitch, and now his mobility would be impaired for at least the next couple of days. _Inform Fury that he's off the duty roster for 48 hours, but not to tell him he is._ Duly noted. 

"You're gonna do that thing where you tell Fury I can't get a call-out but pretend I'm still on the roster, aren't you?" Clint padded into the steamy space, settling in next to Natasha to let the water pressure work its wonders. 

"Yup. And it's kind of rude of you to pull back the curtain when I'm right in the middle of something duplicitous." 

"It **is** terrible spy etiquette, isn't it?" His mouth quirked to one side in the smile that seemed to be well on its way to conquering Steve like it conquered her all those years ago. 

"The worst. Right up there with forgetting to turn your ringer off." Her body pivoted toward him, and then she was in front of him, leaning up to kiss that smile because she'd never been able to figure out exactly how it tasted. Dark. Dark and sweet. Like bitter chocolate or a corpse well into rot. 

Best to go with the chocolate analogy. Although, Clint had understood what she meant when she told him corpse thing. She told him everything. Even that he tasted like sweet corruption and the desolation of roads not taken. Like heartbreak and an umbilical cord between your teeth. Like chewing off your own arm to escape a trap and finally hitting marrow.

All he ever did was hold her tighter, kiss her harder, fuck her deeper, go out and find whatever she needed so he could deliver it to her on a silver platter. Sometimes, when she surprised even herself, what he did was laugh. And then she laughed. And then...those were the nights where she'd always felt the tectonic shifts inside her, felt the progress from red to black, from being the monster in the darkness to the protector in the shadows. 

She owed Clint that. She owed him FOR that. 

Only right now, with a fucked up shoulder and a broken rib to share between them, all Natasha wanted was right here, pinned against a tile wall and groaning into her mouth as his ridiculously big hands framed her hips and one hard thigh slid up between hers. 

There were vanishingly few ways to do this right now without one of them hurting, but that never stopped them before and no way would she let it stop them now. Clint was in a mood, and when hunger really took him over, it did things to him. Made him a sweet, biddable beast that would tear into her in exactly the right ways. 

Natasha leaned past Clint, her hard nipples rubbing against slick skin as she turned off the water and then let him go, leaving the showers and knowing without even looking back that he was following her into the locker room. Yes, the best way would be on her back, on one of the benches. 

All of this analysis and one would think she wasn't really aroused, that she was just 'making it up' to Clint for the broken rib, but they both knew better. "Tasha..." He was behind her, one of now two people she'd allow that position, and before she could even lie back on a bench and spread her legs he gripped one of her thighs and lifted it up to brace on the padded metal. 

"Fuck, Clint," she growled leaning over the bench so far she had to brace a hand against a locker, canting her hips back. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" 

His teeth sunk slowly and deliberately into bared nape of her neck, bit a path over to the muscle of her good shoulder. "You know what." Her hips jerked back and she hissed at him, almost bucking him off when his callused fingers slid around her hip, down her belly to find slick heat. Two knowing fingers pressed inside, while the heel of his hand trapped her clit against her pubic bone. 

Natasha was never sure what to DO when Clint held her like this, from behind, his fingers and teeth anchoring her--trapping her. It provoked an almost atavistic mixture of terror and arousal and need and the only thing saving it from being an ugly flashback instead of foreplay was the trust she gave to Clint and the aching, fucking annoying tenderness she felt when he was holding her.

When his fingers were gone she felt empty. She hated to feel empty these days, because she knew something better. Her head snapped around and she snarled at him, and that damn smile of his shouldn't be so goddamned arousing. But it was. It always was. 

His hands sunk into her hips hard enough to leave marks later, and he bit down again as his cock slid into her. The stifled moan as she tightened up convulsively around his prick was gratifying, almost as gratifying as the thick hardness filling her up. Her hips rocked back to take every bit of him, greedy and demanding.

Maybe it was because their one-on-one time had been somewhat limited recently, but neither of them had the slightest bit of patience. No sooner had Clint found a rhythm, almost punishing, did it go erratic, forcing him to keep shoving his hips back into some semblance of steadiness. Oh, he was already close, she knew, and he was holding on for her. 

The only thing to do in these situations was to torture him. Of course. Torturing Clint Barton was so much fun, and something she had apparently endless patience for.

Her cunt was like slick, tight velvet around his cock, clenching and releasing as he fucked her, and she reached up behind her with her free hand and dug her nails into his scalp. Bite harder--the message couldn't have been clearer. He did, and when his hand moved off her hip toward the hard little bud of her clit she yanked viciously on his short hair. "No." It was a warning growl, one that he answered.

"Shit, Tash...fuck." He quivered all over, then bent her hips down at a sharper angle so the piercing in his cock worked right exactly where it was meant to. "You better be able to come like this, then," he whispered slickly into her ear, panting to hold off even though she was goading him on to climax by hitting several of his very well-programmed buttons. 

Oh, fuck. No problem. Natasha is always so quiet, even if her body's screaming so loudly that Clint can barely hold on. It was her fault his teeth broke skin, really, since she was thrashing in his arms as her orgasm fried all her circuits. She was aware of Clint's low, animal noises, the sharp scent of blood, and her convulsing body taking away the last shred of his control. 

He sat down heavily before his knees gave out, and pulled Natasha into his lap in a messy, sated sprawl. "Damn, woman." They both chuckled tiredly and she leaned her head back on his shoulder so she could turn to see his face more comfortably. "I've missed you, you know," he murmured.

"I'm right here." 

"Yeah, well. How's that trusting Steve mission progressing?" Clint carded his fingers through her damp, messy hair, half-smiling at the way it tangled around his fingers.

"You asking for a sitrep?" 

"Mmhmm."

"Then my evaluation is that he's wonderful for you. I like watching you happy." 

"See, it's that right there, Tash. That's bullshit." Clint could say that to her and have it not end in a broken bone. "You talk like I don't need you, and like he doesn't want you." 

"You were never the monster that I am." Natasha never put that term in her past. It seemed like a cop-out. It seemed weak. 'I was a monster in the shadows, but now I'm not.' Like you could walk away from that and still get to have such an embarrassment of beautiful things.

"Again, bullshit. The only difference is that Fury found me when I was a year younger than you, and I'd gotten started when I was a couple of years older. That's the only difference. If I'd been told at fifteen to blow up three floors of a hospital, you'd better believe I would have done it. Opportunity, Tash. That's the only degree of difference here, and he accepts me."

"And you're sure he'd do the same if he knew the truth about me?" She met his eyes calmly, assessing.

"Yes." How Clint could be so sure, she had no idea, but he most definitely was. No hint of ambiguity in his voice, and she knew all of his ambiguities by rote. 

Her plan had been simple--give Steve and Clint time to bond, to fall in love, and then do something drastic and yet heroically unavoidable to get dead. Clint would cry, maybe Steve would, but then they'd heal and be together and be happy and normal. It was a good plan. If she were better, more selfless, less childish...but she wasn't.

She wasn't ready to leave. She was ready to feel human.

"All right." Natasha said the words slowly, sounding them out, rolling them over her tongue. They tasted good.


	2. Dressing Our Wounds with Industrial Gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about having lived so much in such a short time is that sometimes you have no control over what you remember and when you remember it. In other words, PTSD is a cruel bastard of a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. EXTRA WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER. I don't know what to call it without giving away the plot and spoiling it, but let's call it:  
>  a) Reproductive Horror  
>  b) Body Horror  
>  c) Child Sexual Abuse  
>  d) Reproductive Coercion  
> 2\. Seriously, if you cannot handle these things do not read.  
> 3\. This is why it took forever to write this chapter. You'll see. It killed me.

//Sorry, Clint. Called out. Everything's fine re: Steve.//

//Did you just 're:' me in a text?//

//Shut up, Barton. I should be back in a couple of days.//

//You know the drill, yeah?//

//I'll be careful, Clint.//

**

Natasha was careful. Careful to let herself get captured by exactly the right terrorist at the right place at the right time. Stealth interrogation was what she called it when she filed reports. Fury overlooked the practice because it worked, Clint thought she should just call it 'death wish' and be done, and Coulson was always there to yank her if it went to shit. 

SHIELD had been looking for this bastard since two weeks after the Battle of New York. He'd found a Chitauri artifact and taken it out of country in the confusion following the battle, before SHIELD had even been able to shut down the private airfields, and now his organization had promoted him to Generalissimo or Lord High Ass KIsser or whatever the fuck and he was using the artifact to blow shit up. 

Shit, in this case, being schools and apartment blocks and, yes, hospitals. 

Getting herself caught had been almost laughably easy. A simple disguise, a little well-placed Farsi, and then 'oops, is that sat phone using the same channels as the CIA?' and here she was, sitting in a hole. At least it was nice and cool in the hole, even if it was utterly black and even if she was fairly busted up. Busted up, but functional, and bored. So. Fucking. Bored.

After she'd unlocked her cuffs and repositioned them for quick release, she let her eyes drift closed, amping up her hearing and forcing herself into that state that isn't quite asleep. One she'd perfected even before the Widow program had scooped her out of the orphanage. You could rest, after a fashion, and yet no one could sneak up on you. 

Sometimes, Natasha thought that the greatest gift Clint had given her wasn't his unconditional loyalty, his unwavering passion, or basic freedom, but rather the simple joy of sleep. She had been so goddamned tired.

There was no magic cure, of course, for all her damage. She didn't sleep well every night. In fact, it was a rare night when she curled into Clint and was blissfully unaware of the world until the morning's light slanted in through their window. But it happened. And it was a beautiful thing when it did.

**

Natasha Romanov, age thirteen.

**

There was no word for 'extraction' in the Widow vocabulary. Natasha was the alpha of the little pack of trainees, girls chosen from the refuse of Soviet Union, all of them beautiful, amoral, and suffering from a host of attachment and other psychiatric disorders. Six girls, six budding sociopathic assassins. 

There had been jealousy when Natasha had been chosen for this mission, and she'd had to fend off two attacks between being given the assignment and leaving for it. Somehow, she doubted her comrades would be so envious now.

It was surprisingly hard to let herself get caught in the first place. Detection felt a lot like failure, even when it was ordered and disobedience was not an option. When the Chechnyan rebel cell had caught a starving, nubile orphan snooping around the warehouse they used as a base, they did what came naturally to men.

They kept her. Naked, chained at the wrists and around her neck. The chains would have been laughably easy to slip, but those were not her orders. Her orders were to listen. To be a beaten dog they could speak freely in front of. They fed her, kept her relatively clean, and used her perfunctorily. It could have been worse--they could have been raging sadists. 

Her labile mind soaked up every word, and she learned each of these men inside and out. There was even one, relatively young, who refused to use her. The others made fun of him mercilessly. Natasha was quite sure that if she'd been male he would have had no qualms, but he maintained that his girlfriend was far more beautiful than this stupid kid and he didn't have to share her. 

Whatever. They were idiots for believing him, and she would kill him just like all the rest when the time came. No one was coming for her--the mission only ended when she uncovered all of the intel she could and got herself out of captivity. 

Much to Natasha's frustration, she lost track of time. It seemed to her that, judging by the clothing the men wore, the season had turned from deepest winter to late spring. Her body might have been completely under her control, but she also paid it no mind whatsoever. It functioned, it was still strong, despite the misuse. 

It hadn't bled since she'd been in captivity.

Menarche was scarcely a year behind her, and her periods were irregular and at first she thought little of it, except with relief. Being used when she was sore and bleeding didn't sound appealing, and only a fool sought out pain without purpose. 

Time blurred. Everything blurred save the words and faces and the pallet they'd made for her. And then...then one night after they'd been drinking heavily, Yevgeny, the leader, knelt between her compliantly spread legs and actually took a look at her. He burst out laughing, even as he speared her on his cock. "Look at this little whore. Gonna drop a kid--bet it's mine!"

Natasha's eyes flew open at that, and she looked down, **really** looked at herself for the first time in months. It was amazing the lies you could make yourself believe. Her belly swelled. It looked obscene. It looked sickening. She forced down the panic and made herself assess her situation rationally. Around five months, she judged. Enough to show, not enough to substantially restrict her movements. Not yet. 

Suddenly, her mission had an expiration date. There was no way she was waiting until she was ungainly and unable to maneuver. No way she was waiting until she was helpless giving birth here in this warehouse. She had no idea what her masters would do about this, but she still clung to some idea that they would do **something.**

After they'd all (save that one) taken their turns, they roughly washed her up and pushed at her belly as if trying to see if it would move. She threw up when it did. It was so wrong. It was horrible in a way that her young mind couldn't wrap around, disgusting and humiliating and parasitic. They just laughed some more. Stupid girl, what had she thought would happen? 

After that night, Natasha forced her mind to change course. She convinced herself well enough to convince her superiors that she'd learned all they had to teach, and that it was time to get herself out. Yevgeny didn't mention the pregnancy again, but she heard the others talking about how it was a blessing--you could get rich off selling random brats. Sometimes to wealthy Westerners to take and raise as their own, sometimes to wealthy Westerners to take and take and take. To buy, to sell, to trade. All depended on how the little thing looked.

The words were intelligible, but still Natasha couldn't **comprehend**. She was thirteen. This wasn't in the mission brief. This wasn't what she was trained for.

All in all, it took another long, long month (and oh, she kept tight track of the days from that night onward) for her opportunity to present itself. Another night of heavy drinking culminated in the group finally figuring out why Pavel wouldn't fuck her--it wasn't that he had a girlfriend, it was that he was a filthy faggot. Finally, those idiots realized he was what they despised almost as much as the Soviets.

While they were busy turning Pavel into paste, it was easy to slip her chains and steal a too-big jumper out of a locker along with some heavy socks and creep out the front door. Within an hour she was in the Widow safe house, dialing in with her code, reporting that her mission was complete.

After they picked her up she was thoroughly debriefed, and only after they were satisfied that she'd told them everything she was sent to learn did they send her to medical. After a cursory exam, they handed her a hospital gown and put her in a cell. "You're a good agent," her masters told her. "But this makes you weak. Show us you're not weak, Natalia, and you can rejoin your sisters. We won't speak of this lapse again." 

For another solid month, she sat in the dimly lit cell. Food was shoved through the door at the bottom twice a day. She tried everything to make it stop. She punched herself in the stomach. She starved herself. She tried something horrible and unwise with the pointy end of the plastic spoon from her breakfast tray. It was no use. She was too far gone, and for whatever unholy reason this parasite was bound and fucking determined to survive. 

Like mother like child.

When the pain started, Natasha was certain she was going to die. No one came. She kept expecting someone to come, kept asking for someone to come, for the first few hours. After that, she was too weak, and she knew the truth. This was the test. This was how she would prove her strength. 

There was so much blood. Skin and tissue tore because she had no idea when to push or not to push. All she knew was that she was failing this test. This thing was not coming out of her, even though it felt like she was splitting in half. In desperation she scrabbled between her thighs, reached inside and felt the head, barely able to grip it for the slimy slickness, but then with one more screaming push she could grab. Grab and pull. 

With a suddenness that shocked her, her arms were full of a bloody baby, still connected to her by the bluish-red of the umbilical cord. The baby screamed its head off, and she did the only thing she could think to do--she used her teeth to separate herself from this creature that had just come out of her. 

It was squalling and bluish and covered with something that repulsed her and yet she held it to her chest and rocked herself back and forth, every motion causing blood to gout from between her legs. The noisy creature quieted, and she looked at it, vision going fuzzy around the edges. 

It was beautiful. No, she was beautiful. Tiny, perfectly formed, even if covered in goo. She. Natasha had a daughter. Natasha could not allow them to have her daughter. Natasha knew what they would do to her. Natasha saw her child sitting in a cell just like this one, saw her under those men. Saw her used and thrown away like trash.

With the last of her strength, she clamped her thumb and forefinger over the baby's nose, clutching the bloody thing to her, feeling consciousness slip from her in the same instant the squirming thing went still. 

_She'll be safe._

**

Natasha blinked and shook her head, arranging herself in the chains to appear even more helpless when she heard her captors coming to take her for interrogation. Why that memory? Why now? Imprisoned and interrogated was nothing new for her at this point. She didn't have time for the twist of guilt and gush of red all over her ledger. There was work to be done.

**

The flat was dark when she slipped inside, bone-weary. Medical had released her with the usual cocktail of pain meds she wouldn't take and antibiotics she would. She'd sat in there longer than usual, then she'd showered for what felt like forever, even took the time to dye her hair back to red and then straighten it. Fury and Hill had been quick with the debrief, and she'd been even more terse than usual, reporting on the facts she'd gleaned and nothing else. 

All that effort had gone to putting off her return home as long as possible. If she waited til the middle of the night, it was likely that Clint and Steve would be done for the night and passed out properly, and she could just crawl in on Clint's other side and breathe him in and shut her eyes and wait for morning. She'd promised Clint things before she left that she couldn't deliver on right now, and there was nothing she hated more than going back on a promise to Clint.

Fate was a cruel bitch, though, and when she slipped off her shoes and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, she found Steve, wearing nothing but boxers and making tea. He must have heard her come in, because he didn't start, and there were two mugs on the counter instead of one. She couldn't help but notice how tidy the kitchen was--everything was tidier since Steve got here. He never made a big deal about it, but he picked up after them like a ghostly nanny after helpless charges who were raised in a barn and couldn't be taught better. 

"Hey, Tasha," he murmured, pouring water from the electric kettle into both cups. "We were starting to get a little worried." 

"Yeah?" Her lips quirked in a smile at the 'we.' It was sweet. Everything about this man was sweet, although she knew very well that he'd loved and lost and suffered as much as any of them. Only he was still...Captain America.

"Yeah." He bit his lip and shifted from one foot to the other, still so shy around her. "Your hair looks really pretty like that."

This man was going to be the death of her. "So does yours." She reached out and ruffled his sex-and-sleep-mussed hair, taking a kind of delight at the blush.

"I will never get used to this. Ever. Why haven't you killed me yet?" He was so obviously trespassing on what was hers. 

"Why on earth would I kill you? Because of Clint?" She reached for her cup and took a careful sip, leaning with one hip on the counter, then sidling up to sit on it. In a barn.

"Because...everything's a mess. It's...not..." He made a helpless gesture with his hands, trying to find words for something he'd never even considered, much less lived.

"Equal? All three ways?" Natasha took another sip, tucked one leg under her. "Why do you assume it won't even out?" 

"I don't think you want me." Said the sculpted god standing in her kitchen in his underwear.

Maybe a laugh wasn't the kindest response, but she couldn't help it. "Oh, no. It's not that." Her smile melted away. "I just don't know how to tell you what I am." 

"The same way Clint did. Trusting that you won't scare me away." Poor Steve. He had no idea how innocent and sweet Clint was compared to her. His secrets were...quaint. They were more about things that happened to him, not things he'd done.

"Well. You wanna know one secret?" Just to start. An aperitif.

"I want to know anything you want to tell me." God, he was earnest.

"I was never planning on having to tell you any of my secrets. I was planning on dying and leaving you and Clint to yourselves. So he could be happy." 

That stopped Steve in his tracks, and the look on his face made her feel like she kicked a puppy. "Oh god. Tell me that's not your plan anymore." He put down his mug, took hers out of her hand, and then put an arm on either side of her on the counter. It was the most physical he'd ever been with her, and the thing is--it didn't upset her one bit. She found that she liked him close, liked being able to untuck her leg and wrap both of them around his hips loosely. 

"It's...it's not, Steve. Bruce talked me out of it." Softly. Not Clint, Bruce, who'd caught onto her scheme months ago. "Since then, I've been trying to figure out how to fit." 

"You've been trying to figure out how to fit? I thought I was the one who needed to fit." Clint and Natasha were a matched pair, and Clint's love for her was so fierce that sometimes Steve wondered if it would set New York on fire. And apparently, Tasha's love for Clint was so deep that she would die just to make sure he lived a happy life with someone else.

"There are things, Steve, that you will have to know about me because they are written on my body. When we really, truly become lovers you will see marks that tell a story, and those stories are all nightmares. I don't think you would want me if you knew the stories my body could tell." Her voice was flat, but for once her eyes weren't. Steve was starting to know her well enough that he recognized that being present for him, with him, even when she was thinking hard things was a measure of deep trust.

"I think that you two are breaking my heart just assuming that no one could ever love either of you because of what's happened to you." His voice was rough, and he couldn't help but pull her into his arms. 

She allowed it, let her head rest against his broad chest, smelled Clint on his skin. "No, no. Not because of what's happened to me. Because of what I've done. There is a difference, Steve."

"Fuck your ledger." It was so soft she almost missed it. But no, Captain America really did just drop an f-bomb, and it wasn't during sex.

"Steve." Her eyebrow quirked and she pulled back to look at his face, half-tempted to scold him for some ridiculous reason.

"No, I mean it. You can't live your life like that. Neither of you can. You really think you're responsible for what they made you into? You really think a child is to blame for the way it's raised? That is bullshit, Natasha." Christ, he was serious.

"Steven Grant Rogers. Language." Okay, so she would scold him if she felt like it. "Even if that's true, and I am not exactly convinced, you are still who you are. The woman who raised you raised a strong, true, good man. You were born to destroy people like me." 

"When I look at you, all I want in this world is to cherish you. Both of you." Cherish. Such an old fashioned word. Such a sweet word.

"I think that I need to go to bed." Her head fell against his chest again, and the weariness that she'd been able to forget about during their talk surged back over her again. 

His fingers lifted her chin, and he leaned down slowly to kiss her, giving her time to retreat that she didn't take. It started out so sweet, like all their kisses, but Steve's blood was apparently still up, along with other things, and in a few shared breaths it was anything but sweet. When he felt her push back, kiss back, it felt like a victory, like he'd finally made fire with nothing but two sticks and a lot of patience. 

"I..." Steve had no idea how to ask, or even if he should ask, or if he had any right to ask. "I want to watch you and Clint." 

Natasha moved her head back a fraction to enjoy the blush she just knew was spreading across his cheeks. "Figure it's time to learn the ropes?" 

"Um...I...When it's time, I want to know what to do. So I don't hurt you or disappoint you or..." She stopped his self-deprecation with her tongue, not letting him up for air until she was sure the spell had passed.

"You could never disappoint us, Steve. Don't forget, I've watched you with Clint. You are damned good in the sack." Her teeth nipped at his lower lip. "Take me in there and get me naked. If we're lucky, Barton will eventually wake up, the lazy bastard." 

"I'll wake him up," Steve said, voice so low it was practically a growl. Now that was the way to her heart. Or rather, into her pants.

"So c'mon. Mush." She tightened her legs around him, and he carried her into the bedroom effortlessly, setting her on her feet and gently pushing the jacket off her shoulders. 

"You get hurt this time out?" he murmured, taking the hem of her tee shirt and pulling it up.

"Little bit. Nothing major." Out of deference to the new stitches in her side, she pulled her arms in through the holes rather than putting them over her head, and Steve carefully negotiated the rest of the process. No way was she wearing a bra over stitches, and Steve leaned down to nuzzle at the hollow of her throat as he unbuttoned her jeans.

"You are so beautiful." He said it with a reverence that was almost terrifying. If Clint had used that tone on her when what they had was so new, she would have run so far, so fast, and never come back. Progress was progress, though, and now she just tightened her hand on his shoulder as he sank down to take off her boots.

By the time he was sliding her panties down her thighs, she knew he must be able to smell how turned on she was. Still, Steve took no liberties other than nuzzling his cheek against her belly, almost like he knew what had been on her mind.

"Hey, Tash." Clint's voice was sleepy, but his eyes were bright in the darkness. He'd been awake since she walked in the door, listening to everything, watching Steve undress her. She'd promised him that she would come to a decision about Steve, and she'd kept her promise. That it was a good decision, a decision that made them stronger together, was just a bonus. "About fucking time you got home."

"Fury said he's blocking your number. You're bugging him too much." She crawled into the middle of the bed, the sheets warm and smelling like two big, strong men just fucked in them. Maybe that should be unsavory in some way, but she found it comforting. Comfortable. It smelled clean and honest to her.

"I may have checked in a few times." Clint pulled her into his arms, then looked over her shoulder as Steve slid in on her other side, close enough to wrap an arm loosely around her waist as she turned to kiss Clint hello.

"A few dozen," Steve whispered in her ear, making her smile despite herself. Her thigh slid over Clint's hip, and Clint laughed into her mouth. 

"Tattle-tale," he murmured, tongue sliding deeper after the accusation, hand stroking down to cup one full breast, thumb rubbing the nipple and pinching. Clint rolled her onto her back, and Steve groaned when she ended up mostly splayed into the crook of his arm, one leg over his and the other moving apart for Clint to fit between. 

Some nights, Tasha was so hungry it was like she was possessed, but then there were nights like this one, where Clint could taste the regret, where he knew she wanted more than to get off, she wanted to forget. And he was very good at making her forget. 

Natasha was glad she didn't have to spell things out for Clint. He read her body language, her microexpressions, because she allowed him to--it would be easy to conceal, even from him, but when she chose to show him, he scanned her like an open book. There were no new marks on her, no bruises on her hips, but her captor had used her. She'd let him use her, because nothing says 'I am weak and vulnerable' like lying naked under someone, probably complete with very fetching tears. 

"In a hurry to get the fuck outta there, huh?" he murmured, mouth slick against her breast, trailing open kisses down her chest and belly. She only resorted to that tactic when something was driving her--an artificial timeline, an imminent break with reality, a ticking timebomb. It was bad enough that she let someone else have her just so she could get home to him, to them, faster. 

"I was just fucking sick of it," she muttered, all at once glad he understood, and frustrated that she had no tricks up her sleeve this man didn't see. 

"You...oh," Steve whispered, bless him, finally catching up. It wasn't his fault they spoke in their own code, their own language, and it was one you needed to learn a new alphabet to even approach. 

"It's okay," Natasha and Clint murmured together, in a breath, just Clint licked and kissed the rest of the way down, her thighs spreading for him and hips canting up in anticipation. Steve's hand curled almost all the way around the thigh splayed out over his legs, not forcing her open, just providing a surprisingly comfortable weight to anchor her. Poor boy's mind must have been going in circles so fast that it was about to pop a gasket when Clint's tongue flicked over her clit and provoked a shuddery moan from her.

That got the other man's attention, and his eyes focused down on what was happening. Learning the ropes. Clint's thumbs pressed into the slick folds, spreading them so he could get to the tight little bud more easily. His tongue had muscle memory of this almost as sure as his fingers knew how to hold the draw of an arrow perfectly steady. Too much too soon, and it wouldn't work for her, so he backed off her clit and licked to either side, where the tiny muscles spasmed, then down to dip his tongue just barely into her, gathering her juices to trail back up again. 

Steve was staring, almost unblinking, and Nat thought it would be funny if she weren't so busy wriggling her hips around and making little noises of satisfaction and frustration. When Clint had those hips moving in a rhythm, seeking out an orgasm instead of just letting him play with her, he returned to her clit in earnest, licking in a hard, insistent rhythm. He reached out and grabbed Steve's hand unerringly, pulling it from Nat's thigh and untangling his fingers, pressing two of them just above the little nub, pressing firmly into the muscle there and giving him something to push against with his tongue. 

Trapped between Clint's tongue and Steve's fingers, all Nat could do was give in. Sure, she could have fought it, fought them, just on principle. Made them work harder for it. But they were such good boys, and they were doing so, so very well. She hissed and then cried out despite herself, body going stiff and hands digging into flesh wherever she could find it--Steve's arm, Clint's shoulder. It felt like it wouldn't end, and yet it did, leaving her enervated, the weight of the past few days crashing down on her. 

Clint knew that this was it for her tonight--she didn't even want fingers inside her right now, and that was fine. Just fine. When she remembered some things, when they took hold of her, it could take her a while to get back to a place where it was all right again. Steve looked a little confused, especially when Nat exaustedly shoved him till he was on his side facing away from her, and she could wrap her arms around his waist, trying hard to be the big spoon even though she was so much smaller than he was.

He curled in at her back, arm over her hips and reaching over to Steve's, other under her head even though it meant that arm would have no feeling tomorrow. Once again, for the thousandth, millionth time, Natasha was grateful for Clint. Grateful there was one person on earth she didn't have to explain herself to, or apologize to for her weirdness, her disfunction. 

She needed to hold something against her chest sometimes. Something innocent and precious that she wanted to protect. Something beautiful. Something to make her heart ache less, to make it possible to finally, finally sleep.


End file.
